SOMEHOW, WITH A LOT OF LUCK, patience, a few migraines, and advice from more-experienced teachers, I made it through my first year. Rather than just dissolve into nothingness, I decided to end the year with some style and finesse.
Voila! Our first annual, grand, three-day overnight camping trip. I figured it would be an awesome way to end the school year. (Or, was I a glutton for punishment)?
This was no jaunt to the Concord Hotel for a weekend of video games, health spas, back massages, and golfing. We would be backpacking into the woods, trailblazing, using compasses, living on wild edibles, and sleeping in tents. It also meant I would be taking my inner-city crew away from their familiar street turf and warm beds, into a new, foreign, almost-exotic environment filled with new sights, sounds, and smells.
They anticipated this trip with both excitement and a touch of nervousness. Of course, they wouldn't admit to fear of the unknown. Like most adolescent boys, they had trouble confronting any shortcomings within themselves, (it meant, somehow, a lack of macho and manliness). Thus, that underlying gut-feeling of uneasiness seemed to permeate our classroom.
I decided to deal with their concerns in an open, up-front fashion. Besides frequent class discussions, I got them involved in every phase of the preparations. But rather than functioning as the omnipotent giver of knowledge, I took more of a back seat approach, performing the role of guide.
I divided the class into several committees, including first-aid, food and menu, equipment, activities, and transportation. Each student had to be on at least one committee. During the months of April and May, they spent several class hours doing independent research on their topics. They made phone calls, wrote letters, read resource material, and even drew maps. It was an incredible learning experience, and a far cry from the impression perceived by a fellow teacher: "Oh, rough life you got! Taking your students out for fun and games, eh?"
A few weeks before the trip, I spoke to the class about wildlife. I reasoned that this topic would really get them psyched.
"With any wild animal," I began, "it's a matter of knowledge and respect. Most people who have bad encounters with potentially-dangerous animals, like bears, moose, or mountain lions, initiate the incident themselves by doing something stupid. Rangers can verify that most conflicts are usually our fault, not the animal's."
"There are bears out there?" Terrence asked, all wide-eyed. "I mean, where we're going?"
"Yeah, they're out there," I said. "They probably won't want to get near us though, especially the way we'll smell after our first ten mile hike!"
"You talkin' real bears?" Phil asked anxiously.
"No, I'm talking Teddy bears, the kind you sleep with at night. Yeah, I'm talking real bears."
Nobody said a word. They were freaked.
"Like I said before, fellas. It's a matter of respect and knowledge. We learn to respect the bear, its territory and its habits, then we go in like Boy Scouts - prepared! If we do that, there's no reason to be afraid."
"What's there to learn about a bear," Leland questioned, "except that it's big and mean and has large, sharp claws? I sure hope it don't like the taste of black boys."
Everyone laughed, more because they were releasing nervous tension than anything else. They wanted an answer.
"Look," I said. "I'm not taking you any place dangerous. I've been to this area, and I've been to places a lot more rugged and remote than this spot. When I was fifteen years old, I went with the Scouts to Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico. The place is immense. It's got more than 200,000 acres. It's a chunk of the whole dang state. Anyhow, when we were out there, I saw with my own two eyes a rattlesnake, a mountain lion, and lots of wild bears. They even walked around my tent during the night. But we were prepared. We had bear-proofed our campsite."
"What does bear-proof mean?"
"Good question, Curtis. Now we're getting to the knowledge part. Basically, it means locking up all your food and anything that smells like food, and putting it a substantial distance away from yourself and your tent. Usually, you put it in a duffle bag and hang it high on a tree limb."
I continued, "Another bear-safety technique involves how to hike in bear country. It's important to remember that we're just visitors in their territory. This tactic suggests we always make noise when hiking. It ain't too healthy to catch one of these powerful animals by surprise. They don't seem to like that kind of thing. Some folks actually wear bells. The bears hear you coming, and since they don't want anything to do with you, they move away."(I didn't dare share the famous joke about this technique: What's inside a bear's stomach? Answer: Bear bells!)
"What happened when that bear was around yo tent?" one of my students asked. "What did you do? Man, I'm bringing a dang machine gun!"
"Well, I was with two other guys, both scouts from Buffalo. We were in this large four-man tent. We heard him come out of the woods, sniffing around for food. That big critter walked all around out tent, grunting and sniffing."
"Were you scared?"
"No way."
"For real?"
"I wasn't scared, I was terrified ! One of the guys in our tent was this big dude, a football player – a huge lineman on his high school team. He was squeezing me so hard that I thought I was gonna die from him, not the bear!"
"So what did you do, already?"
"Well, we just laid there, perfectly quiet, shaking like leaves, I guess. I knew we'd be all right, though, cuz we had followed our instructions and bear-proofed our campsite and tent. There was no food, not even a piece of gum inside our tent. After a while, the bear moved on. They way we smelled, I was surprised it got as close as it did. When we woke up the next morning, we found out that everyone else's tent in our patrol had been knocked down by the bear except ours. Pretty lucky, eh?"
In my mind's eye, I recalled the rest of the story: I have always figured that night's event was a case of measure-for-measure from the One Above. He was rewarding my friend and me for something we did at the very beginning of our stay at Philmont: The first day our Buffalo scout group arrived, we found more than five hundred scouts from all over the world doing the same thing – preparing for two weeks of exciting, tough, wilderness adventure. We carried all our food in our fifty-pound backpacks, and to save weight, nearly all of it was dehydrated. It had to last two weeks. The ranger put it rather succinctly, "Can you really survive without Shop Rite and a supermarket?"
Anyhow, all the new arrivals were placed in "tent city." It was a sight to behold: Row after row of neat green canvas tents with wooden floorboards. The place had the feel of a marine boot camp.
On the second day, all five hundred greenhorn scouts were assembled in a large mess hall. No one knew why we had been called there, but we gathered as requested. One of the scout leaders went to the front of the room and asked for order. He had a large clipboard in his hand.
"All right, y'all," he called out in a true Southern drawl. "Please listen up." I want to welcome y'all to Philmont Scout Ranch in beautiful New Mexico."
A chorus of cheers and whistles rang out.
"So as we can provide for all of yo needs, includin' yo religious ones, I need to find out who's exactly what particular religion. When I call out yo religion, kindly just raise yo hands."
My lifelong buddy, Keith Frankel, known affectionately as the Frankovoleechio, (shortened to plain Leechio), sat next to me. We shifted in our chairs.
"Ain't gonna be too many Jewish boys besides us," I whispered in his ear.
"Couldn't care less," he answered.
"All right," the scout leader called out again. "Catholic!"
It seemed like hundreds of hands flew up in the air. The ranger wrote something down on his clipboard.
"Baptist!"
Hundreds more raised their hands. He jotted down a quick estimate on the paper.
"We're outnumbered, bro," I said to Leechio. To make matters worse, we were sitting toward the front of the room in about the third row. Then again, it would've been really bad news to have all 500 of 'em turn around and stare. Leechio was still cool with his response.
"Like I said, who cares?"
"Okay, Methodist!"
A slew of hands rose above everyone's heads. We sat and awaited the inevitable. Mr. Ranger scribbled on his board.
"All right, Jewish!"
Without hesitation, our arms shot up proudly. I looked around. In this entire building, there were just two arms raised above the masses, Keith's and mine. Oddly enough, there were no quirks or laughs or snide remarks. We'd probably get them later, I thought to myself. Even though my friend and I had not been raised as religious Orthodox Jews, nonetheless, right then and there in that Philmont mess hall, I felt incredibly strong in my faith and proud of being a Jew. It was more than an act of defiance. It was an affirmation of my very being.
Thus, when the bear spared us, Leechio and I felt it was a sign of divine intervention. We could actually see the bear's paw prints in the mud surrounding our tent. It was as if the good Lord was saying, "You guys stick up for Me and I'll stick up for you!"
Suddenly, a bell rang, loud and annoying. I wasn't at Philmont with my buddy Keith; I was in front of my class at the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School.
My students shifted in their chairs, exchanging glances with one another.
"You sure about this trip, Mr. Laz? Maybe we could try a hotel or something!"
Leland slammed his hand on top of his desk and declared, "I ain't afraid of no bears! I see one and I'll kick his head off!"
"I'll be bringing my piece with me," Terrence interjected. "In case I run into one of those unlucky suckers! That baby is gonna be sorry it was ever born."
"Me too," another blurted out. "Can't bring 'em to school but we sure can bring 'em out in the woods!"
It was time to go into a thirty-minute lecture on what to bring and what not to bring. Guns, shotguns, pieces, switchblades, hand grenades, mortars, and machine guns were definitely out. No machetes or swords either.
"The only knives allowed are Swiss Army and small camping knives," I said emphatically. "No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Understood?"
I got the usual head nods.
"Good. Follow our safety rules and we'll all have a good time. We're not gonna see any bears, so don't even bother thinking about it."
The big day arrived and we left the "safety" of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School for the great outdoors and the mysterious adventures of Allegheny State Park.
Before departing, I went over our entire entourage in my head. We had eight students and two adults besides myself, including one parent who volunteered to take three days off of work to help us out. I was relieved that Bobby's dad had agreed to come. Besides helping transport half the crew, he would be another set of supervisory eyes and ears. My good buddy Sheldon, aka – Brother Sheld, had also agreed to lend a helping hand. He was never one to turn down an opportunity for a bit of excitement outside his life as a computer maven.
My car trunk said it all. In one shopping bag sat four packs of frozen Glatt kosher hotdogs and two quarters of frozen chalav Yisrael skim milk. Poking out of another bulging shopping bag were about eight packs of salted port rinds.
"All you mug heads should be eating kosher," I said, pointing to the fried pig skins. "That stuff looks downright nasty!"
To my surprise, just as we were finishing loading both cars, Bobby's dad told a few off-color jokes...way off-color. My students laughed nervously, knowing I didn't approve. When the guys were finally in the cars, I pulled Mr. R. aside.
"Look," I said. "I really appreciate your coming along. We couldn't go without you. But I really think it'll be better for all of us if there's no swearing and bad jokes. Those are our rules in the classroom and I just don't want us opening a can of worms. These guys'll go crazy!"
"Yeah, all right," he responded. "I just figured we're out of school and you know, I'd hang loose with them."
I realized he was just trying to get on their good side. He seemed nervous. Part of it, I was sure, was because he was inexperienced with black people. It occurred to me that he probably felt a lot like I did my first couple of days at school. Unsure. Uneasy. Edgy.
"It'll be a super trip," I said, patting him on the shoulder. "Just relax and drive safe. I'll keep ya in my rearview mirror!"
Turning to the guys who were squirming around in the cars, I yelled, "Oooooooeeee, Momma Nature here we come!"
They let out some wild cheers, and we were on our way.
For the first hour's drive, we just listened to funky music and shot the breeze. They made a few jokes about Mr. R. and his beat-up car.
"Hey, don't forget, gents," I interjected, reminding them about one of our gym teacher's lines. "His buggy may be a mess, but four wheels beat two heels!"
"I ain't so sure," said Leland. "I think my two heels could run circles around those four wheels."
"Yeah," said another. "Wonder what welfare check he used to buy that thing."
I changed the subject.
"Just to be on the safe side, I rented a cabin for us," I remarked while bouncing my hands on the steering wheel and humming a tune. My eight-year old Chevy, known as Old Bessy, was doing okay.
"Safe side of what?" Joey questioned.
"I mean in case it gets real cold at night, so you don't freeze your kahoochies off! And just in case you turkeys decide not to sleep in the tent."
"Shoot, man," Curtis said, raising his cheek in a jive gesture. "I'll be in that tent. Don't you worry 'bout me!"
"Me too, Laz. You probably scared of sleeping in the dark, anyhow!"
"Yeah, Laz probably sleeps with a Mickey Mouse nightlight on!"
They howled and started ribbin' on me, how I was a honkey sissy, a wimp, a Gaylord, doofus, McCracker, etc.
"Yeah," I replied, ignoring their comments. "We'll see. We'll see."
After a few hours, we arrived at the state park. The sun was shining in full glory. Green spruce and pine grew everywhere. Momentarily, I could tell trouble was brewing. The guys piled out of Mr. R.'s car laughing. Not an innocent laugh of merriment, but the stride, gang mentality, poking-fun kind of outburst. They were digging into the man. Before I could do anything, to my amazement, Mr. R. responded with a black ethnic joke. It was going to be a long camping trip. I figured I'd better get the situation under control.
"All right, gents," I called out. I was decked in my Yankee baseball cap, Scout Master shirt, jeans and hiking boots, with a Swiss Army Knife and compass hanging from my belt. "The only way we'll get anywhere on this camping trip is to work together. If not, we turn around right here and go back home."
It was very quiet. You could hear the birds chirping.
"Good. Now let's do what we're supposed to do, unload the gear and food, and split up into our special groups."
Day One went surprisingly well. The only major catastrophe was the equipment committee's great blunder in forgetting to bring toilet paper. At one point, Jimmy ran over to me, eyes ready to pop and said, "I ain't usin' no leaves either! I'd probably pick poison ivy!!"
Even though I had noticed this important omission back at school when the planning committees were meeting, I decided to let them live with their decisions, for better or worse. They needed the opportunity to take risks, grow, and make mistakes without some adult always telling them what or what not to do. After some anxious and very humorous moments, I gave Jimmy a roll from the trunk of my car. He was so grateful he promised to buy or steal a Dodge Viper for me. I politely declined his offer, explaining that I simply couldn't turn my back on Old Bessy or she'd be offended and leave us forever in these woods.
The day passed all too quickly. We managed to squeeze in a five mile hike, a swim in a refreshing lake, (my WSI and ALS courses from the Red Cross came in handy), and set up a rope bridge and orienteering course.
After cooking out our delicious Glatt hotdogs on a no-match fire, (they learned how to use flint & steel), and cleaning up, I was, to put it mildly, exhausted. Even though it was one in the morning, my hyperactive devils decided against beddy-time. They moved the cots together inside the cabin and started tag-team wrestling matches. In no mood for noise, I went outside and started a small campfire. I could still hear the ruckus, but it was tolerable knowing they'd soon collapse and sleep like babies.
A half-hour passed and they were still going as strong as ever. Enough was enough. I'd have to put 'em to bed myself. They had made me promise to tell them a ghost story, anyhow. Their yelling and whooping was getting pretty obnoxious. I quickly extinguished my small fire and headed for the cabin.
I pushed open the door and felt like I had front row seats at Madison Square Garden. Mattresses and cots were lying all over the place. A long wooden table was on its side. Sheld was reading in a corner and Mr. R. was sitting in a chair near the action, encouraging his son to "get in there and kick some you-know-what." The contestants, however, were not Hulk Hogan and Mr. T taking on the Mad Samoans. This particular event featured the Black Boys against the White Boys!
The action was hot and furious, and even involved the audience. The five black students were triumphantly dancing on top of the cots, ridiculing the outnumbered white students who were making a feeble attempt to save face and charge the man-made ring, only to be thrown into the air and onto the floor. I watched closely to determine just how serious this fight was. Mr. R. seemed visibly upset. His overweight son was being made into mincemeat.
"Why don't you guys fight fair, one-on-one?" he called to my black students. "Or are you afraid you'll get whipped?"
"Shoot," Leland answered, bouncing on the cots. "We'll take you on, too! Boxing, wrestling, you name it!" He started humming Eye of the Tiger and held his hands above his head.
The guys on top of the cots hugged and high-fived each other while laughing and ranking on the white kids. For some reason, I didn't intervene right then and there. Perhaps I didn't realize the situation was getting out of hand. Perhaps I was just overtired. I leaned against one of the double cots and watched. Everyone basically ignored me, so I thought the whole scene was still on the innocent side.
Mr. R started yelling out raunchy black ethnic jokes. Most centered on how blacks smelled and were essentially stupid. For each line Mr. R. came up with, my black students had ten statements of their own about Mr. R's car, wife, mother, anatomy, and family lineage. Mr. R was no match for the speed and wit of my inner-city crew. They were eating him alive and loving every minute of it. He reminded me of some klutzy white guy going into the ring against the fast and clever Muhammad Ali.
Just as I was about to close the show, Mr. R's son decided it was time to defend his dad's honor. He charged the cots and lunged at Leland. Leland stepped aside and let the huge body crash harmlessly on the bedding. He laughed while he pushed Bobby off the cots and on to the floor. Whether out of embarrassment or real pain, Bobby started crying and began clutching his arm.
Mr. R and I jumped up at the same time. My intention was to get control of the situation. Mr. R's was quite different. He grabbed Leland from behind, putting him in a choke hold.
"I'll kill you, nigger," he screamed. "I'll freakin' kill you!"
Mr. R's massive muscular arms held a dangling Leland in the air, gasping for breath. Everyone in the bunk stopped dead in their tracks. No one moved.
Mr. R had totally snapped. He was mumbling and shaking; and all-the-while he was strangling my student!
Time stood still.
A million thoughts ran through my head. Was this for real? These are the kinds of things you read about in the morning papers. They happen to other people, not to me. I envisioned the headlines: "White, Orthodox Jewish teacher takes class on camping trip. Only white students return! All blacks killed!"
After a couple of eternally-long seconds, Bro Sheld moved forward. Waving him back toward the rest of the crew, I moved into action. I knew that if I reacted emotionally and started yelling, or tried to grab Mr. R's arm, it would only add fuel to the fire. He might turn on all of us!
I walked in front of him, placed my hand gently on his arm, and very quietly said, "Mr. R, let him go, okay?"
Slowly, he released his death grip. Then, letting go, he pushed Leland away and exclaimed, "Don't you ever lay a hand on my son again, you hear? Or, I will freakin' kill you next time!"
Leland fell to the cots, holding his neck and sobbing. I put my arm over his shoulder and bent down to make sure he was all right.
"I'll kill that honkey," he cried in a low, raspy, broken voice. "He had no right to do that to me. I'm gonna kill him!"
"Yeah, you ain't gonna do nothing' blacky," said Mr. R.
"Mr. R," I said. "Please! Enough!"
Suddenly, Leland stood up. Pushing me aside, he walked by Mr. R and went to his bunk bed. He kept mumbling, "I'll kill that honkey!"
He started rummaging through his knapsack, crying, mumbling, and rubbing his neck.
In one dramatic motion, he pulled out an eight inch steak knife! So much for my Swiss Army knife / Boy Scout lecture.
Mr. R responded by picking up one of the heavy wooden benches and raising it over his head, ready to heave. If the threw it, Heaven forbid, I'd be taking Leland home in a plastic bag.
Leland descended from the top bunk now, the knife raised in his clenched fist. Mr. R stepped forward, about to release the bench.
In a flash, I jumped between the two, my back to Mr. R; I knew Leland wouldn't use the knife on me.
They were about ten feet from one another. The end of Mr. R's upraised bench was only a foot from my head. I looked Leland straight in the eyes, my arms at my side. "Leland, put down the knife," I said.
He stopped walking and stared at me. The air was hot and thick, like pea soup.
"I want you to put the knife down," I said. "Now!"
His eyes moved from the knife to my gaze and back to the knife again.
"Leland, please. Put it down."
Suddenly, he threw the knife down, and crying uncontrollably, bolted out of the cabin door.
I let go a sigh of relief. Mr. R put the bench down. One of my students turned to go after Leland.
"No," I said. "Just leave him. He needs to be alone for a while."
For a minute or two, nobody said a thing. One by one we sat down, ashamed, I guess, to look at one another.
"This is not Mr. R's fault," I finally said. "It's not Leland's fault. It's not any one person's fault. It's our fault. We're all to blame for what happened, because we all encouraged it and let it happen. I wasn't excusing Mr. R for what he had done, but I didn't want my guys dumping the whole thing onto him.
"This was a group problem," I continued. "Everyone contributed to it, and two people almost got seriously hurt. It's the exact opposite of what we said we were going to do out here. Work together, help the next guy out." I paused. "Start packing, 'cuz we're going home. Now!"
A few of them moaned out loud. Some started crying in disappointment.
"I don't care if it is 1:30 in the morning," I added, making my way out of the cabin. "The way we're acting, we couldn't even make it through the night. Just start packing."
I found Leland leaning quietly against a tree, a hundred feet from the cabin. His hands were in his pockets, and he was staring at the ground. I put my arm around his shoulders and said, "Do you want to talk about it?"
He put his head against my chest and started crying.
"Let it all out," I said, no longer fighting my own tears.
After a few minutes he was able to talk about what happened. I told him what I said to the group and how everyone was getting their things together to leave.
"Mr. Laz," he said, looking at me in amazement. "You ain't got to punish everybody for what happened. It wasn't their fault. I-I guess I was too rough with Bobby."
"But it wasn't just your fault, or Mr. R's. It was everybody's, including mine! Everybody got into the act, and I allowed it to continue."
"Yeah, I know but...why don't you let me and Mr. R talk things out? We can come to an understanding."
If I would have had the strength, I'd have done a double cartwheel. Here was Leland, my supposed rough, tough, insensitive, inner-city adolescent, telling me he would attempt to make peace with an adult who moments earlier had tried to kill him! I was profoundly moved by his maturity and mentchlichkeit, (Open-mindedness. Or, like my grandma always urged, "Be a mentch!" Be fair-minded, nice, and a good person). In spite of my anger and emotional turmoil, I had to give him the chance to resolve this situation.
"All right," I said. "Wait here. Let me get Mr. R."
For a half hour, while Mr. R and Leland were outside together, the other guys waited patiently on their cots. Not a word was spoken. I was more than willing to allow them time to reflect in quietness, to internalize the event on an individual basis.
Finally, Leland and Mr. R came bombing through the door, arm in arm, all smiles. Everyone jumped off their beds and started shouting for joy. They immediately surrounded this odd couple.
We took turns giving 'em five and slapping them approvingly on their backs. It was an experience of group teshuva, (remorse over one's deeds), and most importantly, a sincere resolve to improve in the future. They kept shouting things like, "Yeah, the trip is on!" and "All right, we gonna stay!" and even, "I'm gonna get me a bear yet!"
"All right, gents," I said, bringing them back to Planet Earth. "I hate to spoil the party, but it's late and I'm wiped out. Hit-the-sack time. C'mon, let's go. We've had lots of excitement already. The ghost story is on hold till tomorrow night."
I didn't get any arguments.